Demolishing the Drawing Board
by InfluentialPineapple
Summary: Clint and Steve decide that Tony needs to learn to defend himself... without the suit. A series of one-shots focused on various mishaps and accidents involved. Because, of course, Tony is just that difficult. Pre-quel to The Dark Horse. Rated for Language, Injuries, and Whump. No slash.
1. The Range is No Place to Lose Your Shit

**Demolishing the Drawing Board:  
The Range is No Place to Lose Your Shit**

**Summary**: Tony decides he would rather have his fingernails removed one by one than take burning hot brass to the neck ever again.

The range was stagnant, silent, devoid of any echos of the thunder which had shaken it not even an hour before. Two paper targets, suspended from wires 25 meters down their respective firing sectors, swayed subtly, their ghostly movements a result of their swift departure moments earlier. Each rectangular waste of a tree contained 10 solid black silhouettes, each one sized specifically to represent a particular distance. 300 meter, 200 meter, 150 meter, 100 meter and 50 meter distances were all exemplified by these 10 two dimensional figures which, when viewed through the sights of an M4 Carbine, resembled real people far too closely to not be slightly haunting.

But they were all presumptuous little bastards, particularly that 50 meter target, which despite being the largest and therefore the 'closest', presented an ironic, surprising challenge to nearly all prospective marksmen. A proper sight picture was difficult to achieve with this one and he, and all his taunting little buddies had to die. They deserved to die. And their judgement loomed before them.

Two men stood on the firing line side by side, both sporting identical ear and eye protection. The ear plugs were designed to cancel out traumatic noise over 150 decibels, allowing anything lower to pass through their cleansing mechanics muffled, but intelligible. Their eye-pro had anti-fogging attributes, and shielded the vulnerable optic organs from airborne carbon to an extent. Firearms held at the low ready, Tony and Steve waited.

The silence on the line was getting to Tony, his world narrowed down to the sound of his own amplified breaths, the jeering figures before him and the stoic Captain America immediately to his left. He glanced at Steve, who was currently busy fidgeting with the charging handle on his rifle, before swiveling his head around to find Clint digging in a cabinet noisily behind them.

"Hey, Hawkeye, can we get rolling with this? I've got this crazy inner monologue going and It's starting to convince me that I'm participating in an old-timey western duel."

Steve shook his head, releasing a huffing snicker. "Only you, Stark."

"What?" Tony snapped, turning to regard Steve indignantly, but it was in jest. "Don't tell me you never wanted to be a cowboy growing up. You represent freedom, and there's nothing more free than galavanting the open plains of the Wild West, killing indiscriminately and robbing-"

"Found 'em!" Clint's head popped up from amongst the boxes and various discarded weapons and he raised his hands triumphantly. Each contained three loaded magazines.

Tony rolled his eyes and shifted his weapon impatiently. "I thought you did this last night?"

Clint looked minutely offended, as though the assumption that he had done anything _besides_ prepare for that momentous day was insulting. "I did. I just couldn't remember where I put them. They're already loaded." He approached them, holding the two sets of magazines out to his trainees, who took them gratefully. "Now you both remember how this works, right?"

Steve nodded, but Tony shook his head sincerely, positive he had zoned out during whatever it was he was supposed to remember. "What was this, now?" They shot him pointed glares, and he shrugged indifferently. "He asked! What, are there suddenly stupid questions in the world?"

"Is this why you never listen to my orders?" Steve joked, eyes narrow with mock inquiry. "You just take them in and immediately flush them out?"

"Actually, they never reach the flushing stage." Tony said, smiling at the lighthearted banter. "They're all filtered out instantly by my bullshit purifier."

Steve looked to Clint for support, but found him stifling a snicker at the Captain's expense. "Gonna have to be honest with you, Cap. I do the same thing." he said, and Tony chuckled heartily at that.

"Oh, this just isn't fair." Steve said, gaze shifting between his two insubordinate teammates momentarily before resting on Tony. "Just watch, Stark, Karma's gonna bite you _hard_. I'll bet you only score a 39."

"Whoa, that's a big number there, Soldier, be careful with it. I've heard Army grunts can only count to three." When Steve just stared at him in unabashed confusion, Tony scoffed. "Three? You know, the cadence thing... no?"

He just offered a perplexed shrug. "Must be a modern Army thing."

"Clueless old man." Tony grumbled.

"Moving on from Cap's perceived mathematical deficiencies," Clint began, snapping restless fingers in front of them to gain their undivided attention. "I'm gonna go over how this goes. For Tony's benefit."

Tony beamed at him sarcastically, and earned himself a soft kick to the shin from Steve. Soft, though it was in Captain America's head, Tony's leg nearly buckled beneath him from the unintended force. "Go on, teach." he said roughly, gritting his teeth and shifting his weight to the other leg in a way he hoped would go unnoticed.

"Rifle qualification is divided into three events." Clint continued, sending Tony a glare. "The first is the prone, supported event. You'll have nintey seconds to fire twenty rounds from your first magazine, putting two rounds in each target. Next, you'll fire in prone unsupported, meaning you'll get no sandbags. You'll have sixty seconds to put one round in each target. Last is kneeling, in which you're gonna regret drinking all that coffee, Tony."

Tony considered this before dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "No, actually I shake when I _don't_ drink coffee."

"Sounds like a personal problem." Clint concluded. "Anyway, once again, you'll have sixty seconds to land a bullet in each dude. Then it's over, and at that point I can determine whether you're both completely useless or not."

Releasing a small laugh, Tony watched Clint retreat into the control center with incredulity. "Can you believe this guy?" He asked, turning to Steve, but the Soldier was already moving forward to the firing line. "Ah, whatever."

Clint's voice came over the range's intercom. "Remember, take all commands from the tower."

Now was the time to summon up some determination, and confidence, and Tony attempted to then, approaching his designated lane to the right of Rogers. He wasn't nervous, it's not like his career was riding on whether he managed to qualify or not, but he did feel a burning desire to show up Captain America at his own game.

Steve had always shot better than him. Over the seven full days of continuous rifle marksmanship courses Clint had been generous enough to host, the Soldier had shown him up at everything they did. In a way, Tony had accepted this, understanding that this type of stuff had literally been Steve's profession at one point, but found himself unhealthily disappointed when he'd been bested at re-assembling his firearm. No matter how much time he managed to cut off, Steve always came in no less than two seconds ahead of him. It wreaked havoc on his self-image as a former weapons designer.

Regardless, Tony appreciated his teammate's company. He knew Steve had attended primarily due to his inaccuracy when firing the unfamiliar weapon he'd acquired during the attack on the hellicarrier. But Steve had mastered it basically on the first day. Why he was still there was beyond Tony's comprehension. Maybe he just liked the sport of it.

Whatever his reasons, the training had fostered quality bro time, and a friendship had formed between the three of them. Pepper was elated Tony had found people who were not only around on a semi-consistant basis in comparison to his other friends, but were also absolutely genuine.

And Tony? Well, he just wanted to become formidable both in and out of the Iron Man suit... however, that didn't mean he couldn't make friends in the process.

Clint's voice was a distant boom in his muffled ears. "At this time, assume a good prone, supported position."

Time to shine. He stepped confidently forward, vaguely aware of Cap doing the same, and dropped down onto his stomach, discarding his three magazines within reach. He rested the hand guard of his Carbine atop the stacked sandbags, left hand gripping just above the opening of the magazine well, his right, grasping the pistol grip, and he planted his elbows firmly on either side of him. Cheek pressed into the rifle's cold metal, he clenched his left eye shut, the right one peering through the iron sights. His vision was decent then, thankfully. No blurred images coming back to haunt him with headaches later that day.

"Lock and load your first twenty round magazine."

Tony obeyed, reaching out to where he knew them to be, and grabbing the top one. He shoved it up into the magazine well, and pulled the charging handle, feeling a round chamber with a satisfying shifting of mechanical innards, the bolt flying forward with pleasing force. Actually, he quite enjoyed being on the range. It made him feel powerful and in control, and in his life, he didn't exactly get to control much. Not since Afghanistan.

"Flip your selector switch from safe to semi."

The familiar click of the switch brought a manic grin to his face that would probably scare people he didn't know. He may not build weapons any more, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy them. Taking a few deep, sedating breaths, he focused his sight picture on the top left 300 meter target and shoved the butt stock deeper into his shoulder.

"Fire when ready." This simple command from the tower was powerful, the words alone capable of producing a chaotic flurry of noise and flying shells and speeding bullets.

And Tony fired first, pulling the trigger back steadily and releasing it exactly one point five seconds following the departure of the bullet. The dust cover flew open to expel an empty brass casing and the forceful recoil jolted him only slightly. He realigned his sights and fired again, the seconds ticking away on the infallibly accurate biological clock he'd developed.

Next to him, he was aware of Steve firing off his first couple shots, and as the seconds progressed, he registered the scent of carbon. It wasn't a stink, it was a scent, an aroma, even. Oddly comforting in its own way.

There was no barricade between them and as Tony progressed further down his target sheet, he noticed brass, which flew from Steve's rifle at a dizzying pace bouncing off his left side, but he paid no mind to it. By the time Clint called 'cease fire, cease fire!' not only had he been done for nearly twenty seconds but he was also fairly certain he'd successfully destroyed every one of those cocky little fuckers. That elusive 50 meter annoyance could blow him. He placed his weapon on safe and ejected the spent clip, tossing it behind him and awaiting further instruction.

"At this time, assume a good prone, unsupported position."

Shoving the sandbags aside, Tony swept empty cartridges away from his designated elbow space and held his rifle as steady as possible, in much the same way he had before. He was only shaking slightly... damn you, Clint.

"Lock and load one ten round magazine."

Rinse and repeat.

"Flip your selector switch from safe to semi."

The switch clicked. Tony focused. Maybe he _did_ drink too much coffee that morning. The sight picture was shifting.

"Fire when ready."

_Roger that_. Tony shot true, or so he hoped, shifting his body accordingly with each new silhouette he acquired in his sights. Brass was propelled into him, erupting out from Steve's firearm and falling around him like enormous golden raindrops. One rebounded off his hand, and he ignored the small sting.

Okay. Firing unsupported was a little difficult. He was pretty sure all those little assholes were either dead or dying but, of course, a double tap was necessary to secure victory. One more bullet for all their faces.

'Cease fire' was called. Carbon laced the air thickly like soot, and it stung his eyes despite the eye-pro, seeping into the limited space between his skin and the plastic. Just one more round. Make it fucking count.

"At this time, assume a good kneeling position."

Tony pondered where Barton could have acquired such specified language, and if he'd supervised ranges like this in the past, perhaps for SHIELD. Playing tower seemed fun and Tony kind of wanted in on it. He pushed himself up, positioning his left foot on the ground in front of him, his right knee supporting him beneath. He stabilized his left arm on his knee, elbow pressed into it securely, and held his rifle there, feeling like a true fucking badass, and probably looking it.

Forty out of forty. _C'mon, Stark. Get those damn caffeine jitters under control._

Glancing over to Steve, he was blown away by how this look suited him, kneeling there, eyes narrowed with ruthless lethality. Always standing ready to deploy, engage and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat.*

It was quite the terrifying sight to behold.

Clint was roaring instructions again, and Tony tore his eyes away from the Soldier, preparing himself, shoving in the magazine, chambering a round and unlocking the weapon's devastating potential one last time.

"Fire when ready."

He got one round off. Two. Consumed by the task at hand, the task of showing Steve Rogers how wrong he had been, how goddamn uninformed he was regarding Tony Stark's aptitude for defeating anything that came his way. "_Big man in a suit of armor. Take that away... and what are you?"_ He was not very attentive to something freezing cold hitting his neck. Falling to settle in his collar, between his flesh and his shirt. Metallic in nature. Sizzling.

Wait, sizzling? Burning. BURNING.

"Fuck!" The pain was intense. Like, _seriously_ intense. Shooting became impossible. His hand flew up to locate it, but the brass just shifted, burning untouched skin once more like a fiery little golden demon from hell. Satan's illegitimate love child.

His world became concentrated around two things; the unbearable agony centralized on his neck, and his desperate attempts at removing the tormentor. He couldn't even recall seeing anything. He struggled blindly, yelling, cursing, certain that he looked absolutely ridiculous but not giving two shits about it. Only barely could he discern Clint's panicked voice on the intercom.

"Cease fire!"

Someone grabbed the rifle he didn't know he was still holding and he used the newly freed hand to claw at his neck mindlessly. The brass slipped beneath his shirt and tumbled down his front, and _fucking burned every inch it touched_, with its goddamn red thumb of doom, until he finally regained some primal sense of self-preservation, all other faculties already checked out, eyes watering and squinted with pain.

The solution was simple. He un-tucked his shirt and shook the thing out onto the ground with a desperate yell. It rolled casually out like it owned the place, and sat there in his midst as though it had not just tortured him. Slumping to the ground, he rested back on his elbows, exhausted.

A relieved sigh escaped him as he marveled at the two inch long, fairly unassuming shell and it's ability to put him under what he could only describe as a perverted form of hypnotism. He wondered briefly how many new dance moves he'd just invented. Many, he assumed, as he was still quivering from the shock and the pain.

The spot on his neck where it had found real-estate and settled a down-payment, the patch of seared skin currently throbbing and radiating waves of pain all the way into his damn shoulder, felt curiously wet. No doubt, a second degree burn. It wouldn't be his first. But it was probably the most painful.

Feeling the presence of someone standing above him wasn't helping in the slightest. He felt the overwhelming need to be alone right then, to wallow in embarrassment. If he had waved that firearm around... did he have his finger on the trigger? Or had training taken over, forcing him to unconsciously remove it?

The whole thing had probably lasted no more than 10 seconds. But looking back, it felt like a lifetime. Pain was funny that way. And god, the way it continued to make his eyes stream with the intensity of a sobbing, drunken prom date was so fucking hilarious.

"Tony?" Clint spoke softly.

'_No, go away.'_

"Tony." Steve's more commanding, but still soft, voice.

'_Dammit, just leave me to die._' he though dramatically. His very prevalent inner teenager was speaking his mind again. One day, he'd strangle that kid.

"Hot brass, huh?" Steve asked, and it was innocent and caring. And Tony despised it.

"Yeah, _yours_, you prick." He spat, not looking at Steve, but there was no heart in it. Regret instantly claimed him. "Sorry. My day just got really bad."

Clint was looking at his neck. He could feel it in his second degree burn. A low whistle. "Damn, that's a good one. Steve, did you see this? Oh, it's gonna scar nicely. I've seen quite a few of these, but none this bad."

And Tony suddenly found himself falling victim to the type of insensitive rambling he often subjected innocent, suffering people to. It was honestly never meant to be cruel, just a reaction to certain uncomfortable happenings in which he had no idea how to react appropriately... and now he understood, it was annoying as hell. He glared sourly at his feet, his face rapidly drying. He really didn't want to contemplate the notion of a huge deforming scar, however realistic this notion may have been.

Steve was holding a hand out to him. He sneered lightly at it. It was obviously disease-ridden. "C'mon Tony, let's finish this."

_Finish_? Tony laughed out loud, and the reasoning behind it was left implied for the others. He was _still_ shaking, there was _no way_ he could hold a weapon steady. But, you know what? He would try anyway. Why? Because, fuck you, that's why. Tony Stark did what he wanted. And dammit, he wanted to beat Steve Rogers.

He took Cap's outstretched hand and allowed the Soldier to drag him to his feet effortlessly. Clint handed his weapon back to him and nodded at him wordlessly, expression unreadable, before returning to the control room. Steve stepped back, thankfully giving Tony some room, because, honestly, the man's gigantic frame so close to him was making him feel like he could be stepped on. Steve dwarfed pretty much everyone he stood next to.

Tony kneeled again, weapon raised, certainly looking like a badass but no longer feeling like one. Reminding himself that he already had a round chambered so he wouldn't try to engage a new one, effectively wasting it, he waited. Sweat beaded on his temple, and the angle of his head as he aimed created a nice little ramp for it to travel down, straight into the raw, throbbing mess he knew adorned his neck. It stung like a thousand bees.

Hadn't Steve mentioned Karma? What a vindictive _bitch_ she was. "God, this sucks." he mumbled.

The command came and he shot, but his mind remained on the pain, and the muzzle veered to the left and right, and he couldn't stop thinking about how _pointless_ this was when he had hard liquor, Neosporin and Pepper waiting for him in the penthouse above. All items combined would prove to be the most comforting thing he could ask for right then.

Cease fire, blah, blah, blah. Tony didn't even feel the desire to look at the paper, as it zoomed in, propelled by the wires holding it. Clint had come up behind him, and Steve was inspecting his own paper. Tony rubbernecked, because, well that's what his insatiable curiosity made him do sometimes, and noticed the one misplaced hole, just up and off to the right of that asshole 50 meter target. The curse Steve uttered, so uncharacteristic, made Tony raise an eyebrow. The perfect Soldier had scored a 39.

Tony turned back to his paper, not because he wanted to, but because something told him he had to, and began counting. '_Four... four... four, four four... four four, four... four... four."_

The single huff of a chuckle, and his accompanying smile of elated disbelief had to look ridiculous. Oh well. 40 out of 40. "No shit."

Clint slapped him on the back, beaming. "See? You shot expert. And you said you couldn't do it."

"I never said that." Tony corrected him, tearing his eyes away from the paper, which contained exactly forty holes in all their appropriate places. Murdering tiny sillouhettes violently felt strangely rewarding.

"But you were thinking it." Clint proclaimed with finality. "Definitely thinking it."

Tony couldn't deny that. Turning to leave, left hand raised to cup his wound protectively, he was stopped suddenly by Steve. He smiled broadly. They shook hands. "I've never been outclassed at the range." He said.

Tony shrugged. "And I've never been assaulted by an inanimate object quite so viciously, but hey, there's a first for everything." He paused. "Thanks for, uh... thanks for hanging around?" The attempt at gratitude was uncertain, awkward.

"And I'm sorry about... you know." Tony's menacing scowl, as he stood there, one hand hovering over his neck like he had some sort of disability, had Steve swapping topics faster than a Kardashian swaps men. Not that he wouldn't accept an apology. He just didn't want to hear about it at that moment. "God's honest truth, Tony? I could never shoot like that."

Becoming annoyed with all this icky _attention_, and even more embarrassed now than he had been before, Tony rolled his eyes. "You sure that wasn't a pity miss, Captain 'Bleeding-Heart-On-My-Sleeve', Rogers?" It was unnecessarily cruel. Tony hated himself for saying it.

Those blue eyes sagged just a little and then narrowed with restrained anger. "Actually, I believe in offering a legitimate challenge. There's no honor for the other person if you let them win."

Wanting only to leave, Tony scrambled for something to say. His neck was throbbing to the rhythm of his heart. And now his torso radiated discomfort. He'd almost forgotten the damn thing had made a perilous journey down the front of his shirt. "I shouldn't have said that, Steve." He settled with this, though it was weak. "I know you wouldn't do that."

Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking over Tony's shoulder and the back down to his feet. "Yeah. Thanks."

Nodding to break the awkward silence (silence only disrupted by Clint's noisy re-organization of the cabinet he'd wrecked), he turned to leave again. Steve called after him. "Let me know if you want to shoot sometime. Marksmanship is a perishable skill."

Tony waved it off as he left. "Yeah, maybe I'll actually get to use it someday." he mumbled to himself, and retreated upstairs where Pepper doted on him and lathered copious amounts of Neosporin on his burn. It turned out to be large, four inches long, and two wide and as it healed, it was positively nasty. Vengeful.

Two weeks later, he was abducted for the first time since Afghanistan.

_*Line twelve of the U.S. Army Soldier's creed. I found it fitting. _

_**A/N**__: So, not so sure about this one. But hey, that's what you guys are for, right? Let me know. _

_My vision for this is to have it coincide with The Dark Horse as the story progresses. Should be cool._

_By the way, this really happened to me about 3 months ago at a range. The scar is huge... but kinda neat looking. Worst recovery EVER. Burns suck._

_Oh, and I'm more than satisfied with the amount of positive feedback I've received for The Dark Horse, and I've decided to continue it. And when I say 'more than satisfied' I really mean, my heart is actually flying around in my chest in its love for you guys! Seriously, you're all amazing. All of you. Basic plot elements are being developed currently, not to mention the longer-than-I-anticipated 'Unexpected Places', but Dark Horse will go on!_

_'Till next time. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Pressure Points: Nature's 'Nope' Button

**Demolishing the Drawing Board  
Pressure Points: Nature's 'Nope' Button**

"Here, give me your arm." Clint was holding his hands out expectantly. Tony looks at them like they were lined with tiny, invisible razors.

"What're you gonna do?" He says, glancing back up and fixing Clint with an expression of hesitant skepticism. If the miserable combatives training he's been through over the past four days, and the resulting black eye he complained loudly about to nearly everyone he encountered, were any indication of what was to follow, oh, he would not go without a fight.

"I'm gonna break your wrist." Clint replies with so much impassivity and sincerity that it takes Tony an entire two minutes of staring at his placid face to realize he's kidding. He hopes. "Kidding. I'm gonna show you something cool."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Something cool." He repeats, mockingly and Clint scowls. "Every time you tell me you're gonna show me '_something cool_', it's ended up being something totally _not cool_. Like something resulting in pain for me and hysterical laughter for you." His words aren't angry. Just a subtle verbalization of his exhaustion and frustration. No one's said this would be easy, but he can't help but wonder if it was supposed to be this difficult.

He's sore. Worn, tattered and bruised. Peppered with open wounds that weeped crimson, scabbed over and ripped open once more the following day. Sure, he's worked out before. More so, lately since his coming up as Iron Man, and a desire to fulfill that demanding role with a sense of duty and honor. Not to mention, working out just made him feel generally better both physically and mentally and suppressed his depression almost enough to make him forget he even suffered from it. But he had only done so at his own pace. And the things Steve and Clint had him doing, these crazy cardiovascular work outs which sent his damaged heart panicking against the arc reactor casing, and often had him convinced that he would go into cardiac arrest (although he never did) were on a whole different spectrum. And this all occurred _before_ attempting to hold his own against two admittedly far superior human beings.

There was speculation in his mind, about how many more bear crawls, supermans, eight-count pushups and spidermans (he'd laughed at the name, then. He didn't laugh anymore) he could suffer through before his heart just simply gave up on him. Because Tony knew he'd reach his physical limits before he ever ran out of the sheer determination and stubborn intent which drove him. Quitting just wasn't in his programming regardless of physical demand.

Steve and Clint were supportive, doing everything they asked of him right alongside him, but never seemed to be burdened by the same limitations, the same ragged panting, the same drenching sweat that dripped off his nose and accumulated into a puddle beneath him as he pumped out an ungodly number of pushups. _But of course_, he tells himself bitterly. One was a chemically enhanced super human, and the other... god only knows, but he definitely wasn't normal. He realized how ridiculous it was one morning when Clint literally used Steve as a punching bag to demonstrate certain strikes, and Steve had just stood there absorbing blows like a fucking statue, not even giving indication that he felt them.

It was almost disturbing, seeing Steve be used like that, and knowing he would restrain himself from hitting back for fear of killing him, Tony had been adamantly opposed to doing the same. So instead, he'd settled on Clint, feeling that he was more on his level. Unfortunately, Clint _did_ hit back. He was swift like a cat, and just as sneaky.

And now, standing there on the huge tumbling mat in Stark Tower's enormous gym as Clint smiles at him with deceptive innocence, Tony thinks that offering up a perfectly good limb to be used for some unknown demonstration seems immensely idiotic. Clint scoffs and rolls his eyes at Tony's cautious resistance. "I promise, it's not that bad. Stop being a wimp."

Tony clenches his jaw, shifts it around in his unique way of displaying annoyance. Yup, it was still sore. "'Not that bad' implies that there's _something_ bad involved. And you have a warped opinion on what's 'good' to begin with."

"Oh my god." Clint pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. Tony just watches him, arms crossed defiantly. "Ok, here." He shows Tony the underside of his forearm. "You're gonna try it on me first, and I'll prove to you it's really not that bad." He places a finger lightly on his wrist. "See these two tendons running up into my hand?"

"Yeah." He confirms, feeling slightly better that whatever it was isn't going to happen to him just then, and allows his curiosity to get the better of him as he watches closely.

The tendons shift as Clint moves his thumb to make them more pronounced and places his finger between them. "There's a nerve in there called Pericardium-6. Rubbing it reduces nausea. Pressing it makes your hand spaz and causes pain. Very effective if you want to make someone drop a weapon like a pistol or a knife."

Furrowing his brow and frowning deeply, Tony's gaze shifts up to meet Clint's. "You realize damage to my wrists, hands, arms, fingers, could be devastating to my entire career."

Hands fly up defensively. "Tony, do you really think I'd ask you to do anything that could cripple you? C'mon, man, have some faith. Here just try it on me, okay?" He holds his arm out again, nodding at it, willing Tony to take it and Tony sighs as he steps forward, taking Clint's wrist in both hands. He cups the limb, thumb hovering over the nerve Clint had pointed out to him.

"I'm not liable for anything that happens." He says and presses.

And Clint just _collapses_.

Like a goddamn demolished building, just crumples into himself and fucking collapses onto the mat, lifeless, open eyes staring.

"What the fuck?" he breaths.

And Tony looks terribly foolish, his hands lingering in the same spot Clint's arm used to be seconds earlier, thumbs stuck out as though he was still holding it. All he could do was stare at the lifeless form, utterly shocked, reason leaving his mind to be substituted with confused horror.

Pericardium-6. He knew next to nothing about Pericardium-6. Anatomy was something he aced in highschool, only to expel the useless information later in life, making room for engineering, advanced mechanics, nuclear fission. You know, important things. Was Pericardium-6 capable of killing someone? He makes it a point to brush up on it later.

He drops his arms to his sides. Looks around the empty room, not expecting to find anyone but half-hoping someone would be there to put this into persepctive for him anyway. Kneeling down, he lightly smacks Clint's cheek a few times. "Hey. Clint." He grabs a wrist, making a point not to use the one he's apparently just killed the man with, and searches for a pulse. It's there. Strong, steady. Not at all altered.

Then nearly shits his pants when Clint's hand flies up, latches on to his wrist and presses, hard, right into the nerve he showed him, eliciting a yelp from Tony. Electricity seems to shoot up his arm and in seconds Clint has him face down on the ground with one hand behind his back, the other clawing the mat, the threat of pain enough to render him immobile.

And the bastard's nearly snorting with laughter the whole time. "I cannot believe you actually fell for that." He says, releasing his hand and stepping back. Tony lays there, face twisted with rage, humiliation having destroyed the pride required to push himself off the ground to retaliate. Behind him, Clint continues laughing. And he had actually cared about this asshole?

Something dark surfaces in his mind, painful and terrifying. A huge man wrenching his arm behind him, slamming him to the ground. Twisting it, threatening to break it if Tony didn't spill secrets, three more brutes standing around watching and laughing and the helplessness was overwhelming, and goddammit, they were going to take his arc reactor anyway, what did it matter if he had a broken arm?

It's been a whole month since the Avengers had rescued him, storming in just in time to find the men packaging his arc reactor for transport, Tony himself, tied to a chair next to them, fighting for breath that just wouldn't come, pale and sweaty and beaten. He hasn't spoken a word of it since. And the others haven't asked.

What was that clicking sound? His eyes focused to find fingers snapping in his face. Clint's there. He looks worried, almost regretful. "Tony, you alright?" He certainly _sounds_ regretful.

Glaring, he bares his teeth, swings his legs around and kicks Clint square in the chest with both socked feet, releasing a furious growl. With a very loud expulsion of air, Clint's thrown off the mat from the force of it, and sent sliding across the floor beyond, coughing and sputtering.

Tony isn't exactly sure what would come next. He sits there, glowering at his feet, arms crossed over his knees, as Clint catches his breath. "I probably deserved that." He rasps and there's still lighthearted humor in his voice, like he was smiling as he spoke.

Tony nods absently, stares with haunted eyes at the mat. "Yeah. You did." His tone demonstrates exactly how unamused he truly is.

"...you alright?" Now there's legitimate concern, and Tony bites his lip, winces when he draws blood.

"Sure." He lies, then reconsiders. Clint is his friend, has _proven_ himself a true friend. Fuck, he had to trust somebody in his life besides Pepper, but this last abduction has left him wary and doubtful and he couldn't... he can't...

Shit. He's letting them win. "No." He corrects himself, spits the word and buries his face in his arms. "I, um... just... just, uh." He needs to pull himself together. Stuttering was not something Tony Stark did. "Had a flashback." he finally mumbles.

There's silence, then movement and he looks up to find Clint squatting in front of him, and there was terrible understanding in his eyes. "I get 'em too." He says quietly, his words sincere, and there was tacit comprehension between them, a silent agreement that they would never ask each other, that awareness of their existence is more than sufficient to offer support. Neither of them need nitty gritty details. "I'm sorry."

Tony grunts acknowledgment and rises to his feet, the lingering fear leaking away, the memory stifled in a locked box for which he didn't seem to be able to loose the key. For now. "So, what's next?" He asks resolutely and Clint's very obviously confused as he stands.

"What do you mean?"

"What are we doing next?" Tony inquires again, wiping sweat from his brow, and stretching his lower back. He wants to continue, want's to force the memory out, and insert new knowledge in its stead. Wants to continue learning how he could keep it from happening again.

Clint looks skeptical but only for a moment, before continuing as though nothing happened. Tony is more than thankful for it. "Alright, try to hit me. Right here." He points to his own face and Tony chuckles. It isn't forced at all. _He would not let them win._

"Can I skip trying, and just go ahead and fucking sock you as hard as I can?" he says, lifting clenched fists and cracking his neck. "Give me at least that."

Clint smirks back and raises his hands, lowering his torso a little into a defensive stance. "I'd like to see you try, old man."

Tony smiles and his fist flies forward, but he experiences that same lightning up his arm when Clint executes a move so fast, he didn't even see it happen. Ultimately, whatever he did had rendered his strike completely ineffective and his fist just sort of falls, useless. "What the hell was that?" he says but he's curious, not angry.

"That pressure point I showed you earlier. If you strike an incoming wrist in just the right way, using that point, it'll stop it." Clint explains. "Hold out your arm." He does so, this time without protest, holding his fist out to represent a half-completed strike. Clint slowly brings his flattened hands together on either side of Tony's wrist, his right hand lightly touches the pressure point, and his left rests at the crease where his wrist begins. "Right here." He expands his hands, and brings them back together a little faster.

"Huh." Tony remarks and stares, fascinated at the event before him. "Amazing what a little nerve can do."

"Right?" Clint seems to love this stuff. He always smiles when he's playing drill sergeant. "Now, I'm gonna go slow at first, so you can get a feel for it, but you learn fast enough, so don't expect mercy for long."

Tony drops into the defensive stance he's been taught, and raises his hands. The flashback is all but forgotten. "Bring it."

He pulls back, mimics a slow punch, and Tony strikes the incoming arm. "Good." Clint comments, "but I'm the one holding back on this. You should be smacking the crap out of it." Tony nods, repositions himself and repeats the gesture, this time as hard as he can. Wincing, Clint shakes the jolt out of his hand and smiles his approval. "Better. Again."

As time progresses, Clint's incoming blows become faster, until Tony is capable of stopping multiple punches from both fists, hands flying through the air, face set in concentration. Deadly accurate, he never misses, and Clint's acclaim is showing on his face with the conclusion of the one hundredth thwarted punch. "Good shit." Tony says, placing hands on his hips and panting.

"Not bad." Clint confirms, not at all out of breath, but whatever. He was still shaking his hand out, ridding it of the electricity rippling through it.

Tony bends over, places his hands on his knees. "Ugh, god, I need to quit drinking." He groans, and when he comes back up there's a fist flying right at his face. With a yell of surprise, he disables it instinctively with the move he's learned, and strikes back.

Clint emits a grunt and stumbles back, holding his jaw where he was struck and Tony, recovering from his initial shock, becomes furious. "_Really_, guy?" He exclaims, rising from his crouch. Clint's laughing at him again, and Tony growls. "I can't guarantee that the next time you do something like that, you won't lose a limb."

"It's a good thing, Tony." He assures him, taking his hand away from his face and shifting his jaw around a huge smile which, quite frankly, was seriously uncharacteristic for him. "If I hadn't known beyond a doubt that you would stop that, if I didn't think you had the reflexive ability, I wouldn't have done it."

Tony hadn't thought of that. Rage slipping away to reveal a proud grin beneath, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair, leaving the black ends spiked. "You had that much confidence in me?" he asks, and his answer comes in the form of a slow nod. Maybe he _could_ do this.

Behind them, the gym door opens and they both turn to find Steve walking in, looking tired and frustrated. At their questioning looks, he smiles, reassuring and utterly maddening because Tony knows something didn't go well during his meeting with Fury, but he also knows that Steve will never discuss it. He prefered to keep all that sort of stressful bullshit on his level, never passing it down to the team, never requesting that they help carry the burden. In his mind, that was his job. He was their leader. And Tony hates it, hates Steve's self-sacrificing crap, finds it completely illogical to operate in such a way, when perfectly capable minds exist in his life who could help him. Could offer sound advice, or even just an open ear.

But that was Steve. Far too caring and peaceful for his own good.

"What did I miss?" He asks, clearly wishing to avoid the topic currently stampeding through the room in a massive herd.

Clint answers before Tony could object to the obvious diversion. "Oh, nothing, just Tony performing above standard in everything he does." Clint beams at him, but Tony doesn't look up, choosing instead to watch the floor intently, a deep frown marring his features.

"Yeah?" Steve's looking at him. He can feel the icy blue piercing him. "So you're ready to fight _me_, right?" Steve's not oblivious, and he's definitely no idiot, and he wants to keep the situation in check. Wants to hold that stupid burden all himself and fuck everybody else, right? Infuriating is what it is. So moronic, Tony can't even understand it.

"That meeting was about me." It's not a question, it's a statement. He notices his fists clenching and chooses not to look at Steve, unable to face the pity, the worry, the sorrow he knows is present in that face of his. "I'm not a fucking child, Steve. I can handle it."

When there is no answer, which in itself is answer enough for him, he storms from the room. Neither of them move to stop him. They understand. Clint gets it, although no words are exchanged.

Fury has lost the trail. Whomever wanted him dead, wanted his arc reactor, his _very heart_, had slipped through their fingers like fine sand.

_**A/N**__: Experiment writing in present tense. Woo! Not sure if it's all correct, so let me know if there are any grammatical screw ups, or if the story doesn't flow right._

_Thank you all for the reviews! Jesters of the Moon, you made my heart swell with pride. I'm glad you like this so much, and I appreciate the feedback on my little idea conjoining this with The Dark Horse._

_Let me know if anything confuses you and I'll explain it in the next chapter. Thanks for reading! Please review!_


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